Bonds
by teawill
Summary: Harry x Draco, in the only way they know how to be. Read: tragic.


Bonds

By WickedElph

Standard disclaimers apply.

His thin wrists were chained to the wall, the iron cuffs a dozen times too-big for his size. They were weighing him down. Funny, then, how ironic everything seemed at the moment; instead of holding his arms up, the metal rings pinned him to the dark floor.

A mere shadow of the once glorious boy who soared through the air in golden sunlight, who hid behind dark corridors and fought gory monsters yet unnamed, who raised shining cups to the air in victory. Many didn't want to think about him, for he was their last hope, and then he lost, and maybe they thought they lost with him, too.

Pathetic, if one would think of his fall from being revered to being forgotten. It seemed every single ally had died in the battle, and the remaining had left him because they were too selfish and wanted to save their own skins. He was alone now, and the only thing to give him comfort was the knowledge that he would die soon.

If he became any thinner, he would soon be able to slip his whole hand through the cuffs. It wasn't freedom that awaited him. If not, it was a deluge of punishment and torture, and at night he'd wake up screaming, wondering why he was a wizard, wondering why hope had forsaken him, wondering why things had to turn out this way. And there was no true freedom to be had in this iron cell. Delusion was now a constant part of his mind, and sometimes he would just sit, eyes blank, mouth vacant with lost memories, lost ideas, and lost words. Then he would mislead himself that everything was just a bad dream, but in the end, he was still haunted when –and though-- awake.

Death Eaters prowled everywhere. Strange fuzzy shapes in his mind, in his eyes, dark feet shrouded by thick cloaks. Sometimes he'd try to reach out, but then the iron cuffs would come, and they'd hold him back. Everything was cruel nowadays, even inanimate metal that denied him the attempt to renew his tactility.

To touch.

To feel, once more.

Today had passed by in a myriad of events for this prisoner. Sometimes he could feel people surrounding him, but never once did they come near. They were always far away, and then they'd mutter something, and the pain would come. He thought there was a chance he'd be able to block it after a while. But even after weeks of weeping and gnashing of teeth, the pain always came fresh, anew, like it hadn't battered this body a thousand times ago. He didn't try to block it, now. He felt when he was in pain. It was the only time when he was allowed to be human, and even that was welcomed.

Nothing made sense anymore. Some part of his mind once told him he was supposed to dislike pain; but that, along with everything else about him, was neglected.

He was sitting on the ground, like he had many times before. But he wasn't alone now. Someone was standing over him. A salient, erect figure that wielded power like a cloak; the crown of the person's head was an elegant silver. It was seemingly out of place in this cell which had housed nothing but darkness, and shadows, and tarnished shine up till now.

"He's giving you a chance to live, of course."

"Give me freedom--"

"Or give you liberty? You know, Potter, I never thought you were so partial to Muggle literature. But it'd make sense. All that self-righteous crap about protecting them whenever we came within ten feet of each other."

Green eyes that didn't seem so green anymore were pained. "Leave now, please." No one failed to notice the 'please' in that voice, the small, small noise of the universe that rang dimly against the prison cell, and how it fell from his lips hotly to fall dead against the coldness of the other's gaze.

"Why? I come to give you salvation," he said. He meant it.

"No…"

He didn't care for pretences anymore. He didn't care for putting up fronts of rebellion. Maybe it was finally time to accept things, because life was never good for him. Maybe death would be better.

"…You come here to torture me. Like everyone else does."

For a moment, a fissure of emotion appeared on the stoic face of the standing man. But then it sealed up, like layers had closed up once more, embarrassed for failing to protect the emotions they had been taught to bury even deeper than their own demons.

"You refuse, then."

The smaller figure on the floor didn't say anything, didn't do anything. The blonde man was expecting it. But then a small mouth fenced by chapped lips opened, and expectations were shattered.

Once more.

"Yes."

"Have it your way, then," the blonde said. The refined drawl that came out of his mouth was now clipped and harsh, losing all biting wit and caustic remarks.

There was nothing but acidity.

In one swift movement, he had dropped to his knees, somehow still exuding shattering grace even with rashness. His actions became slower and more gentle. Pale, long-fingered hands that wove complex spells, mixed illegal poison and twiddled wands not his held up thin shoulders. Tanned-once shoulders that had bumped his while bare, deltoids concealed that worked to push blonde fringes out of storm-grey eyes, shoulders that sagged and shook with despair at every death. They were making contact once more, like they had once in another story. And then the lips, sweet and coaxing, now whispered against another's.

"Avada Kedavra."

The iron rings pulled against lifeless flesh, learned and experienced about what they had to do. Then the green eyes, now destined to be perpetually verdant, green eyes which had seen too many suffer and watched too many die, those same eyes which would eventually be put back together, then ultimately broke to shut out the cruelty of the world.


End file.
